“Well, it will be bad if he doesn’t.”
It was too soon for me to have the idea that it would be bad if he did: that only came later. So I remarked that, not having seen him for so many years, it was very possible I shouldn’t know him.
“Well, I’ve not seen him for a considerable time, but I expect I shall know him all the same.”
“Oh with you it’s different,” I returned with harmlessly bright significance. “Hasn’t he been back since those days?”
“I don’t know,” she sturdily professed, “what days you mean.”
“When I knew him in Paris—ages ago. He was a pupil of the École des Beaux Arts. He was studying architecture.”
“Well, he’s studying it still,” said Grace Mavis.
“Hasn’t he learned it yet?”
“I don’t know what he has learned. I shall see.” Then she added for the benefit of my perhaps undue levity: “Architecture’s very difficult and he’s tremendously thorough.”
“Oh yes, I remember that. He was an admirable worker. But he must have become quite a foreigner if it’s so many years since he has been at home.”